This one is full of lust for fourteen-year-old boys:
Alexandre was not born in this city, this Paris; he is surprised, sometimes, what a difference it makes. Jeannot might have sprung full-formed from the city's cobblestones and cathedral-spires, knowing her every secret. There are moments when the boy takes his hand and leads him through what seemed to Alexandre a solid wall, and in half a minute they are standing in front of a bakery he could have sworn was blocks away. When he asks Jeannot, though, he only blinks up at him, confused blue eyes and a tentative smile, and Alexandre must look away or be found out.
Aaand this one I wrote because I am a masochist, apparently, and it cuts me deep:
Jeannot closes his eyes, forcing his body to relax, as careful fingers explore his skin. A moment of discomfort: he tenses. "Aimé," he whispers, needing reassurance.
Alexandre embraces him without hesitation and strokes his hair, the touch comfortingly familiar, until Jeannot relaxes again. "Shh, enfant," he soothes. "I am here." Jeannot presses his face into Alexandre's shoulder, feels his chest move as he breathes. "Gently, Paulin," he hears Alexandre say, voice low.
And Paul is gentle, after his fashion; still, his touch makes Jeannot tighten his hold on Alexandre. He clings to Alexandre and bears Paul's hands, for his sake.
Aaand this one never happened and is just Jeannot's guilty subconscious making stuff up:
"I don't want to die alone." Alexandre's voice cracks, like paint on an old canvas, dry as lime.
He sucks in a breath. "You won't--" He means to add "die," but his throat closes up around the word, and it doesn’t come.
Alexandre's smile, beautiful even now, blood-red. And the look in his eyes: impossibly, inevitably, he knows.
Jeannot wakes suddenly, the terror bone-deep again. "You won't," he whispers, arms wrapped around his chest tight enough to imagine they aren’t his own, "you won't," and he hardly knows what it means, anymore, or whether he only dreamed it.